


Til all the jagged edges are put back together again

by lockedforyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Slapping, a punch, dead dove do not eat, major sadomasochism, no real consent, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedforyou/pseuds/lockedforyou
Summary: John's effing done with being betrayed





	Til all the jagged edges are put back together again

John wanted to strangle Sherlock. For most people this would be hyperbole, but John wanted to literally strangle Sherlock, place his hands around Sherlock’s neck and feel his throat compress, thumbs against his windpipe and press, watch his eyes open wide and his mouth open and close and he tries to breathe, a whistled sound in and out until it stops completely. 

I want to strangle him. I want to wrap my hands around his throat. I’ll settle them on his collarbone and they’ll fit perfectly, fingertips just touching. I’ll start to squeeze. The flesh of his throat warms up my hands, it feels like they’re burning. I press my thumbs into his windpipe and his chest starts to heave as he tries to take a breath. Those goddamned blue eyes widen and his mouth opens wide as his breath whistles in and out. I keep squeezing…..

“And I’ll be back later tonight, I wish you were coming to the party but I know you promised you’d help Sherlock on a case.” 

John startles when Mary’s dress brushes him from behind. She looks into the mirror next to him and puts on mascara. 

“Are you ready to go, John? Wow, it’s warm in here, isn’t? Even you look a bit flushed.”

John looks at himself in the mirror. His cheeks are pink and when he meets his own eyes he’s startled at how dark they are, and they feel heavy, like he can’t keep them open. It also feels a little hard to breathe in the close air of the bathroom. His wool sweater, comfortable before, prickles the back of his neck. 

“I’ll just leave the bathroom, Mary, you finish getting ready in here.”

“Okay, John, I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”

John mumbles out some reply as he slips on his jacket and grabs his keys by the door. Once he’s out on the street he inhales the English winter air. It’s cold on his teeth and down his throat and he finally feels like he can breathe again. He runs his hands through his air and starts the walk to Sherlock’s apartment. 

But as John walks he sees familiar sights from his and Sherlock’s cases (or maybe they’re just Sherlock’s cases)- the alleyway with a secret entrance to the Tube, the cafe frequented by mobsters, the tailor shop/front for smuggling exotic spices. Instead of getting lost in nostalgia John becomes more and more angry. How could Sherlock-how could he-how could he do this to him?? How could he cause so much hurt? John feels like his ribcage has been torn open, waves of betrayal pouring over the sidewalk. 

Before he knows it, he’s arrived at 221B Baker Street. He rings the doorbell, maybe presses a bit too hard on the buzzer. The door bzzzs open and John pushes into it with his shoulder, stomps up the stairs, and the apartment door is already open. John walks in and slams the door behind him. 

Sherlock’s not even in the living room, the bloody git. John sees his test tubes set up and he wants to smash all of them, chemicals be damned. He hears Sherlock creaking around on the old wooden floors somewhere in the apartment and he’s not going to wait for him this time. 

John tramps into the bedroom and sees messed up blankets and sheets- of course he couldn’t make the bloody bed- but no Sherlock. He hears another shifting of wooden floors. John runs up the stairs and sees the bathroom light on, the door open, shadows moving across the floor. 

John stalks up to the bathroom and opens the door completely. Sherlock looks away from the mirror, eyebrows up like he’s surprised that John came upstairs. His plum shirt is open at the neck, and John stands still for a moment as he looks at that pale throat all exposed. 

“John, what are you doing here?” Sherlock says, always in that bored patrician drawl. 

John looks Sherlock in the eyes, pale eyes almost made yellowish by some trick of bathroom lighting and close quarters. And then he pulls back his elbow, wraps his fingers around his thumb, and punches Sherlock in the face.

Sherlock steps back, shocked, until the back of his legs hit the bathtub. 

“Sherlock! Fuck! How could you do this to me?” John yells, and his voice seems so much louder in the bathroom.

John’s chest is heaving and it feels like his heart is trying to beat its way out. He can’t catch his breath all of a sudden. 

His heart is breaking and all the betrayal that he’s ever felt, this time when Sherlock admitted his feelings and then acted like they were nothing, when Sherlock left in a plane and barely said anything, when Sherlock died and didn’t say a fucking word, fuck, even when Harry left and his parents left and the military left, the grief is pouring out and John can’t stop it, he feels so fucking exposed and vulnerable. 

John looks up- when had he bent down, hands on his knees?- and sees Sherlock wide-eyed, still doing nothing, still trapping them both with his inaction. 

John can’t wait for him anymore. 

“On your knees, now.” John says. 

Sherlock doesn’t move, his eyes wide open, mouth parted, purple starting to show on his cheekbone.

“I said, on your knees.” John puts his hand his Sherlock’s damn curls and pulls down, making Sherlock wince. 

His knees make a dull thud on the bathroom rug. John looks down at Sherlock’s blown pupils and gasping chest and all he feels is satisfaction. 

He places his fingers under Sherlock’s chin and tilts his head up. Sherlock stays silent, begging him with those big brown eyes.

If he’s looking for mercy, John is not here to give it.

John carefully angles Sherlock’s head. And then he slaps him, against the bruise on his right cheek. Sherlock cries out in pain but John merely angles Sherlock’s head again and slaps the other cheek. He repeats this over and over, angle slap pause, angle slap pause. He doesn’t bother to count. 

John stops, and his hands are wet. Sherlock has tears streaming down his face, but isn’t even sobbing, not really, just breathing hard like before. 

John steps back, taking his hand away from Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock leans forward like he can’t get enough of the touch, like he can’t get enough of John’s punishment. 

John tilts his head and looks at Sherlock assessingly. Blown pupils. Puffed out lips. The fucker wants this. 

It feels like a blow to the chest as those little moments flash in front of John’s eyes. When John ordered Sherlock to eat, to clean up, to take a shower, and sometimes, Sherlock was pliant and obeyed. When John grabbed his wrist once and Sherlock’s eyes widened before he pulled away. 

Goddamn it. 

John unzips his pants to let out his- he has to admit it- very hard cock. 

“Boy,” he says, grabbing Sherlock’s curls and pulling tight, “suck it.”

Sherlock lurches across the floor, stumbling in his desperation. He closes his mouth around John’s whole cock, swallowing instantly, and again, and again, running his tongue all over it, until even John wonders if Sherlock will ever need to breathe. 

But this isn’t how he wants to come. 

He pulls Sherlock off his cock using the grip in Sherlock’s hair. 

“Get up and go to the bedroom!”

Sherlock runs to obey. John follows at a slower pace, but yells after him, “Take off all your clothes, prep yourself, and lie facedown on the bed.”

John takes the stairs one at a time, knowing that now he has all the time in the world to let Sherlock know how he feels. 

And also that this walk is the only time that he’ll give Sherlock to prep himself.

When he finally arrives in the bedroom, Sherlock is already lying facedown on the bed, and his ass is glistening.

“God, you little cockslut. You’re just so eager for my cock, you couldn’t wait, could you?” John asks. 

Sherlocks makes a vague mumble and shaking motion of the head. 

John unzips his pants, without bothering to take the all the way off, knowing that the corduroy and buttons will chafe and punish Sherlock’s skin. 

He gets on top of Sherlock, straddling, picks up the lube and squirts a bit more on his cock for good measure, and then he starts to slide in, adjusting his angle as he goes, waiting a few moments for Sherlock to stretch as he goes farther. But then he bloodly can’t take it anymore, and he starts going back and forth, back and forth.

Sherlock moans as John starts to fuck him hard, harder, harder, faster, Sherlock’s endlessly moaning, it’s like one long sound and it spurs John on, he just fucks him harder and harder, until Sherlock is abruptly silent for one moment. Then with a shout of John, Sherlock suddenly clenches all along John’s cock, and then goes completely limp. 

The incredible pressure and vise of Sherlock’s anus made John come, too, and he spurts into Sherlock, filling him so deeply that he pulls out and keeps coming and comes all along Sherlock’s ass, back, and thighs. 

He falls to the side of Sherlock, and Sherlock turns his head to the side. 

“Do you forgive me?” Sherlock asks. 

“No,” John replies.

Sherlock just says, “Okay,” and then he throws his arm over John. They both fall into a deep oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to continue this story, but obvs there are a bunch of different bdsm scenarios they could explore with their new dynamic. If you want to write them based on this story, please go ahead.


End file.
